


Red Sun Rising

by Triple_Gemini



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Ambiguous context, Angst with a Happy Ending, But not that graphic, Complete, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt, Emotionally Crippled Jim, Extended Metaphors, Friends to Lovers, Hurt!Bones, Hurt/Comfort, I don't believe in MCD, I promise it will have a happy ending, Im trying a new writing style, Jim's kinda messed up, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Metaphors, Other than Jim. ;), POV Alternating, Some Crack, Torture, Whump, in an adorable way, mostly whump though XD, so it's an experiment, theres basically a lot of hurt in this, timeline inaccuracies, what else can I mess up?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5010895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triple_Gemini/pseuds/Triple_Gemini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's funny, in a cruel, sadistic sort of way, how your mind just stops, ceases to function in that momentary all encompassing relief when you find someone you lost, in the same way a mother would react to finding her missing child, he supposes, because all of the god awful scenarios of what could of happened to them race through your mind at 100 miles an hour, and in that moment when you find them again, those thoughts suddenly cease to exist like your brain short circuited with relief.</p><p>Of course, a few seconds later in Jim's case, they all come flooding back at him again like the walls of a dam bursting open under the pressure, because the body of his friend is lying crumpled on the floor, leaking blood like sweat that contrasts so morbidly against unusually ashen skin, like red roses blooming and smothering their way through a field of white ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood, Sweat and Other Bodily Fluids

**Author's Note:**

> We're studying tragedy in English lit at sixth form and the teachers keep saying it's only a tragedy if a person is at the highest point of their life and fall to the bottom. 
> 
> well, I don't believe that. So this is basically my big EFF YOU to my teachers. 
> 
> Btw, is is probably gonna end up no where near a tragedy, there will be no MCD in this fic or annoying breakups, etc, because I am a total mutha-ucking sucker for a happy ending, but I guess it's what your interpretation of the word 'tragedy' is, isn't it?  
> In my opinion, a little suffering is good for the soul.
> 
> (This is probably going to be quite difficult to read, but I hope this style of writing that somehow I got into after reading the Great Gatsby is at least slightly legible. )
> 
> The title came from the song "Bottom of the River" by Delta Rae, t'is a good song by a highly unappreciated band.

Jim

 

It hurts.

Not in a way he can comprehend. He's always been able to deal with _physical_  pain. Either as an encouragement for him to continue to fight, or to help him remember he's not just a distant memory of his father. Survive, breathe, heal, repeat. And it's easy. Simple. Because it's something that's become as straightforward as both living _and_  breathing. Pain is something to remind himself he's still _alive_ , but also to bring him back from the precipice, for when he gets too far into his own head and dives straight into the midst of a crisis.

So while he doesn't actively seek physical pain, he can understand it. And sometimes after an away mission, when he wakes up in Medbay with aching joints and the distant taste of blood and medication in his mouth, it's the only thing that makes him realise maybe he's gone too far. Because while he's in a dangerous situation, the rush of adrenaline seems to blur everything around the edges. The lines between heroism and just-this-side-of-destructive tend to merge together, making it hard to see the bigger picture.

So yes, he understands physical pain. If he gets a cut, it will bleed, it will hurt, it will heal.

But the pain currently manifesting itself through his entire body _now_  isn't so simple . It _aches_ , builds up in his brow in a tight throbbing, makes his breaths come in short shallow wheezes and his heart hammer in his chest.

Because this isn't the sort of pain that can be healed with a dermal-regen or stitches.

This is tearing him apart.

~~~

 

It's funny, in a cruel sadistic sort of way, how your mind just stops, ceases to function in that momentary all encompassing relief when you find someone you lost, in the same way a mother would react to finding her missing child, he supposes, because all of the god awful scenarios of what could of happened to them race through your mind at 100 miles an hour, and in that moment when you find them again, those thoughts suddenly cease to exist like your brain short circuited with relief.

Of course, a few seconds later in Jim's case, they all come flooding back at him again like the walls of a dam bursting open under the pressure, because the body of his friend is lying crumpled on the floor, leaking blood like sweat that contrasts so morbidly against unusually ashen skin, like red roses blooming and smothering their way through a field of white ones.

He lets out a strangled noise, finally managing to make his feet work to meet his brains demands and hurries over to Bones, fingers fluttering over the pulse point on the older man's neck to find a sign, anything to indicate that he's still breathing and almost chokes when he finds what he's looking for. A beat. Steady, but oh so faint and slow like the thrum of a marching band in the distance.

"Bones?" He asks, but he man wouldn't be able to hear a dryer full of quarters if it were in the room with him, going by the lack of response.

His usually feverish bright eyes are half lidded and glazed looking, and he looks so... Un alive, that Jim would hardly believe he was if he couldn't feel the shallow rise and fall of the man's chest underneath his trembling hand.

With his other hand he reaches for the communicator from his pocket and fumbles for the correct setting, and distantly, he's aware he's giving out orders, _pleas_ into the comm and not completely aware of the response he gets, if any, because his best friends blood is pooled in shallow rivulets between his fingers and he's choking on the heavy tang of iron in the air.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Christine

The next 30 minutes go by in a blur, his mind has retreated somewhere deep and far away where it can't be hurt any more and his body is working on pure reflex.

She tells him, later, that when they were beamed back to the ship he refused to let anyone pry the still body from his arms, despite stubbornly remaining absolutely silent throughout the process and managed to make the zombie like walk from the transporter room to the medical bay with Bones draped in his grasp without muttering a single word, not a trace of strain from carrying the dead weight of a 34 year old man showing across his face or in fact, showing any sign of emotion whatsoever throughout the whole process.

The blood had been removed from the blonde's skin, and he'd been wrestled into a fresh uniform by the time he finally started to come out of his mental retreat, and one of the nurses watches him sympathetically as all the events leading up to this moment seem to register.

He stares at the doors to the surgery room like they hold the answer to everything, and for him, the nurse supposes, they probably do. She can't help feeling a colossal sense of helplessness at the situation, but all she can really do is wait and hope the CMO can pull through, for the Captain's sake, as well as her own.

"Captain." She says, somewhat tentatively, but he doesn't respond, still staring at those doors like they're the key to life. "Captain." She repeats louder, and it does draw his attention this time, but the movement of his head as he turns to face her is so electronic she can tell he's still not quite with her, like he's running on pure will power alone but the rest of him shut down a long time ago.

"I'm going to give you a light sedative to let you rest for a while. I'll try and find out what's happening when you wake up, ok?"

He gives a barely there nod, and hardly registers the hypo being discharged into his neck as he lowers himself onto the bio bed, eyes still trained on those doors, even as his eyelids flicker shut.

She sighs, watching as he curls into himself like a five year old, and that's not the first time the captains been referred to as a child, he's usually so full of energy, like a supernova shining it's light over the whole crew and it's exhausting to watch but no one can deny he makes even this tin can of a ship feel a lot brighter when he's in the room, because Jim Kirk _is_  a good captain, the _best_ in fact, but looking at him now she wonders just how much of that greatness is resting on his companions.

When she'd first met Kirk he'd been recovering from an extremely bad hangover, had one fractured wrist and a lump on the side of his head that was almost cartoonish in size which had apparently occurred in a fist fight the night before. He's been treated, lectured at and then sent on his way (hopefully never to be seen again.)

Over the span of the academy she' watched him evolve, progress and tear down any and every expectation of him, and no one would be surprised if the near constant presence of Leonard McCoy by his side had anything to do with that.

Because watching him now, it's like his entire life force has been drained out of him, leaving an empty shell of the man she's served under for the best part of two years, and it makes him look more childlike than ever, with his knees folded near to his chest and his hands tucked out of sight under his pillow, and she's imagining that's because he doesn't want to see the hands that up until 5 minutes ago were covered in the tacky blood of his Chief Medical Officer/Best Friend/Lover???

His eyes are shut, but he manages to mutter out a 'thank you, Christine' against the pillow that he's latched on to like a limpet, still stubbornly refusing to succumb to unconsciousness because of god knows what thoughts circling his malfunctioning brain, but she's relieved to see that the sedative has finally taken its toll on the young man as he starts to drift into what looks like is going to be a somewhat restless and uncomfortable sleep.

She sighs again, resigning herself for a long wait, and refuses to let her thoughts stray from the task at hand. She's always been single minded in her focus, she's _had_  to be on a starship that acts like a large rapid response vehicle, collecting injuries like a magpie collects shiny objects, but it doesn't make it any less difficult when the life of someone you know is hanging in the balance. _Worse_ , if it's a friend.

She shakes herself out of her thoughts.

She has a med-bay to run.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

3 hours earlier.  
Leonard

 

The logical part of his brain informs him it's been 3 days. Three days and roughly 7 hours, give or take an hour or two, as _they_  come in every 5 hours, beat him awake if he's sleeping, ask him questions in a language he's fairly certain Uhura wouldn't even be able to translate and torture him until he passes out again.

The illogical, melodramatic and pessimistic side of him tells him that's the longest 3 days and 7 hours of his life he's ever had the displeasure of living and that it feels more like weeks than days.

Of course, that same, wonderfully helpful part of his brain supplies him with the knowledge that he won't be living for that much longer anyway if they keep this up, because he's lost the sensation in his entire left side and he's sure if he could manage to move, the right wouldn't be too much better either. He's also pretty certain he's currently bathing in a puddle of his own blood, which he might of been able to confirm if his eyes weren't swollen shut.

So no, life isn't looking too bright at the moment.

 

Of course, it looks a whole lot dimmer once the door to his cell opens with a screech as the metal drags along the gravel like fingernails down a chalk board, and the sound reverberates through the ground and into his ears all too painfully. And he'd feel like protesting, or at least making some sort of demurring noise, but he's so damn tired that the sound gets caught in his throat.

The natives of the planet are grey skinned, with bright markings curling over every inch of visible skin and features that are almost bat-like in appearance. Blearily, he can make out one leaning over him and stares into his soul with a pair of those small black beady eyes that can be only described as 'creepy' as it waits to ascertain whether Leonard is in fact conscious or not.

It must of found the answer, because it communicates to its companion in that half shrilling, half clucking noise that Leonard has come to hate so much. That noise means pain.

The creatures shrill at him, waiting. Expecting. Expecting what, he's not sure anymore, he stopped attempting to reply ages ago because apparently the stupid pointy-eared rat men don't seem to understand the words "I DONT KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME, ASSHOLE." Drawn out in the most condescending elongation of vowels ever known to man. And such is his life.

He finds he doesn't really care that much anyway when a pointy sharp clawed foot thing presses down on his already bruised and battered rib cage, and he can feel each one of his ribs groan and strain in protest, like the floorboards on the porch of his mothers house on a windy day.

He's distantly aware he's making some sort of noise, not entirely sure to what extent because everything's gone fuzzy around the edges again, of which he's grateful for as a few of his ribs finally give way under the pressure, cracking and braking like so much of him already has.

He wheezes, and as suddenly as the pressure came it goes again, and he braces himself as much as he can for a blow that never comes. The creatures cluck at each other again, the door screeching its protest as they leave hurriedly, leaving him to bleed out on the cold floor alone.

More footfall. Someone is approaching with a light foot and quick stead. Not those weird aliens, he thinks dazedly, because they have a heavy, uncoordinated tread that makes the whole ground shudder.

One fuzzy, anguish laced cry of "Bones!" Makes him want to fight the lethargy that's twisting itself around his body, but it's too strong, too powerful, too predominant to shake off. Still, he manages to twitch his lips into some sort of echo of a grateful smile, because _Jim_  is here, and he'll never stop feeling grateful for having that man in his life.

He can suddenly think of a million different things he wants to say, all swirling around his head at a thousand miles an hour, but the words get stuck in his throat and caught on his lips, and the darkness which is blurring everything at the edges of his vision is becoming almost suffocating, threatening to destroy that one point of vision he has, which as it happens is the sight of a cobwebbed ceiling painted an unassuming shade of grey.

That is, until it's replaced with the fuzzy outline of Jim's face, those piercing eyes looking so unusually haunted as he frantically searches for his pulse, which in his last thoughts of lucidity he thinks took too much Goddamn time considering he gave Jim all those lectures on basic first aid. Still, the look of relief on the kid's face is enough.

The water is up to his nose, so to speak, and he can't keep himself afloat any more.

That's ok, he thinks as the darkness finally takes hold of him, because Jim will stop him from drowning.


	2. No One Ever Told Me Grief Felt so Much Like Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> UHhhhhhhahaha. hahha. haha. ha. uhhhh. So this is a little late. Whoops. Sorry. 
> 
> Chapter title from C.S. Lewis
> 
> Fairly short chapter, I think, though i haven't seen the word count yet. Note there's another chapter still to come. But hey! at least I updated. 
> 
> In my head, Jim's mind reduces everything down to facts and law terms when he's going a bit crazy, hence the whole law thing coming up. I study psychology but know nothing about law other than what I learn from the crime dramas I watch. (The Mentalist is the best, just sayin') but I'm sorry if there are any inaccuracies. I, uh. Enjoy.

Jim

 

 

The 5 steps of grief, though not necessarily bound to chronological order, are as follows:

  
Step 1: Denial

As an instigator of the events leading up to the incident, and an active participant in the retrieval of the subsequently captured and tortured member of his senior staff, he can most thoroughly say that he is not in denial of the events that happened. Instead, he's been condemned to the whole affair on repeat in his head in vivid detail, each time he arrives at the scene just seconds too late, is not fast enough to evacuate his chief medical officer and ends up having to perform a standard Starfleet funeral that the man would, and does, hate.

It's not denial. He knows what has happened and pleads guilty to the offence.

Step 2: Anger

He is angry, he pleads guilty to that too, but not to a god or another deity who might be responsible, he's angry at Starfleet, for wanting dilithium supplies at the cost of lives. He's angry at the damn natives of the planet, who marred, beat and pummelled their way through an entirely innocent man for no reason other than he was there. He's angry at Bones. For making him care too damn much.

He's angry at himself for falling into the ever expanding tunnel of what he can somewhat timidly call love, though the exit for that collapsed over him a long time ago. Which, he supposes, is why he's having to relive every moment of the last 5 days in an obnoxious amount of detail. Charged with 5 days locked in the cell of his own mind.

  
Step 3: Bargaining

He knows no amount of bargaining with any sort of higher power will allow him to swap places with his CMO, nothing can change the position he is in now, so he has to accept and wait for whatever divine retribution has in store for him. He _should've_ bargained, when he had the chance. He should've demanded at gunpoint for the species to give back his Chief Medical Officer and take him instead. But he didn't, couldn't, and that's that.

Step 4: Depression

Depressed is the wrong word. He doesn't feel depressed, he feels numb. A little manic. Maybe this means he can plead insanity instead. His brain is on overdrive yet his body feels so incredibly weighed down. He supposes that is a kind of depression.

  
Step 5: Acceptance

By saying he's "At peace with what has happened" would neither be acceptance or the truth. He's going to play hell with the world as soon as Bones gets out of surgery, alive or... or otherwise. But he does accept this living nightmare did happen. He accepts that to a degree, he's largely responsible. He accepts, has to, now, that the universe must have some sort of grudge against him, and takes it out on those he loves. He does, therefore, accept that in a way, he's like a poison that'll hurt anyone who's exposed to it for too long. While that might not be the right kind of acceptance, it's acceptance none the less.

 

Has the jury made a unanimous verdict?

_The jury finds the defendant guilty on 5 charges_

The court is adjourned.

 

Geoffrey M'Benga

 

 

  
2 hours.

2 hours he's had his hands buried to the wrists in his boss' abdomen. His boss who happens to be one of the most influential doctors of this time across several galaxies, who's reputation proceeds him and is in no way undeserved or even does it justice. McCoy has saved more lives that he can count and done so in half the time it has taken any of his predecessors. The youngest CMO in Starfleet history. Best friends with the current youngest star ship captain in history who's waiting outside in hopes Leonard will pull through.

He frigging better.

A nurse swabs at his head for the nth time during the process and he takes the moment just to breathe for a second as he runs a critical eye over his work. It's easier to think of it like this. Every tear and break and rip things he has to patch up in order of importance. Almost a game really, or bailing out a sinking ship by plugging up the holes. It's still filling up, just a little slower than it used to be, and every stitch he makes to repair the damage buys them just a little more time, scoops another bucket of water out of the proverbial boat.

He watches the remarkable process of flesh knitting together under the dermal generator. Of skin that decades ago would've bared a marred and brutal looking scar and now will barely have a mark. It feels almost like cheating, but it's a luxury he's glad to have now. The regen unit gives a beep of finality as the incision fades as much as it will before natural healing takes over, the life support system shrieks it's response back for the third time in this long process, alarms blaring to life around him as he sees his hard work diminish before his eyes.

  
Jim

 

 

 

He doesn't really know how he got here, but a moment ago he was sitting on the edge of a bio-bed, now he's standing outside the surgical bay doors in front of a rather grim faced M'Benga, and he knows _that_  look. That's a doctor-y face, the one that comes out just before anything ranging from 'It's bad news' to 'It's fairly bad news' and Jim's not entirely sure he wants to know which _this_ expression is being applied to.

He's also not entirely aware of speaking, just sort of a movement of his mouth opening and closing like a fish, he can't hear his own voice, but he must of said something, because M'Benga's expression shifts slightly and his own mouth moves in response, but through the haze and thrum of his frantically beating heart in his ears, the sound so loud his ear drums might just decide to give up and explode any second now, he does manage to hear it. Two words that mean everything to him and yet shouldn't have to at all.

"He's alive."

He expresses his thanks, that he appreciates the time and effort put in by the doctor, that he should go and clean up and rest for a couple of hours and to keep him updated with any changes... Looking back at M'Benga's face, however, he realises he isn't actually saying any of this _out loud_ and he has in fact, been staring blankly at the man for about two minutes. His body takes it upon it's self to do the natural thing in these awkward situations.

He faints.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. But for the sake of Jim being an adorable idiot, that's the end of that chapter.
> 
> (Jim can't change his plea to insanity if he's already pleading guilty. Sooo.. I messed up a little. Whatever. And yes, that ending is somewhat stolen from Sherlock's wedding speech. What can i say. Crime dramas. Sue me. XD)
> 
> In other news, I have a laptop now. Writing is going roughly 30% quicker than what it was. I live in vain hopes that the next chapter will be written fairly quickly, even though i protested adamantly that this wouldn't turn into a multi chapter fic. Whoops. I fail at one shots.


	3. Leaping Before Looking (Is a Tripping Hazard)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :0 I'm back! Dun dun duuuuun. Ok, so I said this chapter would be done quickly... I lied. Sorry about that. I wrote it and then I didn't like it so I rewrote it and I'm still not sure about how this turned out, but this is the direction it turned, and I don't think I could change that now, so. Yeah. This chapter is quite a bit longer than the others, to make up for things. 
> 
> Gah, idk why I'm so nervous about posting this chapter. This story, as I've said, has been a favourite of mine. Finding a way to finish it satisfyingly whilst maintaining the same level of ambiguity in writing styles has been difficult. With that being said, I hope you enjoy.

 

Leonard McCoy

 

_As a doctor, he'll never be able to get over the sound of bones breaking. As a Starfleet officer he's heard it more times than anyone should. He's fixed more than he can count, could probably make them all in alphabetical order and then from head to toe. He knows the human and pretty much every other humanoid species' skeletons like the back of his hand._

_His hand which now bears crooked and deformed fingers. The latest in a long line of attempts to get information from him._

_The irony of living up to his nickname isn't lost._

_Something clucks at him adamantly above him. He hadn't understood the sound until recently. His translator had been broken in the initial scuffle of being captured, after all. They're no longer even trying to communicate, they're laughing at him. How fragile and meek the human race must seem if this is how easily they're rendered useless._

_This isn't a strategy any more. It's a game. A game he's steadily losing, though heavily disadvantaged in the face of these two...monsters. If this was chess he'd be two moves away from his king being captured. His legs kick out in a last ditch attempt to gain some ground against them, his foot hitting an unprotected knee out of pure luck and earning screech of pain in response.Their retaliating move is for the uninjured captor to jump on his awkwardly bent left femur. Checkmate._

_The scream that tears itself out of his throat is silent and gasping; half of his face pressed into the pool of blood beneath him. Teeth tear into his lip, a red stream sprinting to his chin and adding to the mess on the floor. It's almost poetic to see his life force drain from his body, but with it hope spills too, the chances of survival diminishing with each rhythmic drip. He can't communicate, can't move and can't fight back. He's pinned like a rare species of butterfly, so proudly put on display for his murderers, no longer destined to spread his wings._

_They cluck at each other again, like small children pointing and laughing at a dying bird. A sharply clawed foot drags against his chest like a lovers caress before pressing over his heart, wheezing the life out of his lungs and through his mouth._

_" **Bones**."_

_The word is strained and anguished, and in his weak grasp on consciousness the desperate thought that **no, Jim can't be here. They can't have him**._

 

He startles awake almost violently, but it takes a disturbing amount of time for the black cloud to dissipate before his eyes as he heaves in breaths like a drowning man. A hand reaches out to steady himself against the nearest available surface as his back protests under the strain of holding himself in a sitting position, redoubled with the incessant throbbing in his head. His fingers clutch the shoulder it somehow managed to blindly locate in the effort of conveying the fact that he needs to lie-the-fuck-back-down now because his thighs and stomach are trembling with the effort of keeping himself sat up. The world sways in protest of the movement of being lowered to the bed with enough conviction for him to immediately regret his decision though, and narrowly avoids throwing up over himself. Asphyxiation makes for an unattractive corpse, after all.

"Shh, Bones, you're doing great. Deep breaths, it's ok, I've got you."

As a pep talk it falls a little below average, but Jim's large palm is splayed across his chest in an effort to support him as he remembers how to breathe and he decides that it's good enough. Some sort of demurring noise comes out of his throat without his permission and he hears Jim's snort in reply, patting his hand with a strange air of finality, like he's about to walk away and leave him here alone with his drug addled head, and it's not a nice place to be.

 

What may very well be seconds later a large, warm masculine hand clutches his again, which is somewhat contrasted with the image of a definitely-probably-not-a-man's face staring down at him in a sort of muted blur of colour. Definitely Probably Not a Man shines a light in his eyes and there's only one person evil enough to do that when his head feels like it's splitting open.

"Christine, get that damn thing outta my face." ...Is what he _means_  to say, though it comes out half gurgled and probably unintelligible, despite it being a surprisingly coherent sentence.

Definitely _not_  a man, though evil enough to be the worst kind of super villain none the less, laughs in his face. "It's good to have you back, boss." and promptly pats him on the head like a 5 year old. He swears to all that's holy she'll be taking over his shifts for the next _month_. That is, until she presses the monitor a few times and it beeps as it acknowledges her request to up his morphine. So maybe not a _month_... a few weeks perhaps.

The tearing sensation in his brain lifts a little and he manages to peel his eyelids back enough to look Christine in her very evil eyes as he grunts out his gratitude. Which she responds to with a sort of surprised/appreciative/respectful and entirely graceful way, sticks her middle finger up at him with an innocent smile and then leaves with what he could swear was a skip in her step.

"My med bay has fallen to chaos. _Chaos_ , Jim." He mourns, and even makes the effort of turning his head towards said man just to show him how sad he is about this. Jim looks even sadder about it though, but the distant, hazy part of him which has a Doctorate in psychology informs him that he's probably not sad about his staff's insolence, they've always been that way. He should be though. It's very upsetting. "You ok?"

Jim looks at him then, a huff of breath through his nose that's a dull imitation of laughter and leans forward in his chair like he always does on the bridge when he's either being cocky or angry. He doesn't look cocky though, unless he's reached a new level of cockiness. So cocky he looks angry. That's an achievement, surely. "You're the one in the biobed, Bones. Worry about yourself for once."

He's on a biobed. Right. That really should've been his first priority, shouldn't it?

"M'alright."

As soon as the words leave his mouth and sort of float unbearably slowly towards Jim he regrets it. Well. Not really. It's when Jim's eyes go all narrow and cartoonish (If he was a cartoon he's fairly sure his hair would be rising as if it had a life of it's own right now. Jim's hair _does_  have a life of it's own, but it doesn't possess feelings... Yet.) _then_ he regrets it. Any other time he'd probably find that rage directed at him fairly terrifying, but his drug addled ass is finding it hard to hold back the laughter.

"You are not fucking ok, Bones." There's a low, calm sort of rage in his voice as Jim speaks, his spare hand white knuckling the rail of the biobed while the other is still clutching his in a weird juxtaposition of the need for comfort and a need to be angry at something. He understands, he's been there himself. "Do you know how many times you died on that fucking table?! Three. _Three_  times your heart stopped. I had to deal with the fact you might never come back. Do you have any idea what that did to me?! Knowing it'd be my fault if you _died_?!"

Medbay, usually bustling in it's constant flare of activity has gone unbearably silent, and with it comes a startling bubble of lucidity that makes him instantly regret everything he's said and done since he woke up, which is a surprising amount since it's been roughly only 3 minutes. That pain is back between his eyes, one that never really left but is now all the more noticeable, the price of a few hard bought seconds of sobriety that now he's not so sure is worth the price. "Yes, Jim. I know what that's like."

Jim's face is one of shock, maybe a little of hesitation, which as it happens is not a good look on him. The Kirks are formidable: diamonds hidden behind a veil of bravado and confidence in their invincibility, just waiting to be cut and polished into something extraordinary. Diamonds don't need self doubt, no matter how sharp their edges have been made.... _What_ _the_ _fuck_ _is_ _he_ _talking_ _about_ _now_?

"That's... not the same."

"No." He agrees. And it isn't. He may be prone to nagging, picking the occasional fight (mainly with the pointy eared hobgoblin of a first officer, who's identity will remain undisclosed) and generally being argumentative, but he makes a point of being _rational_  in his arguments. He knows what it's like when Jim gets himself into trouble. The clamp that grapples around his heart and squeezes it dry until his body threatens to just give up, but his mind is working overtime. He knows what it's like to fix him up. To have his hands buried in his torso, to fix broken bones and organs and skin and hope to god he has the skill to put him back together again. He _knows_  what it's like because maybe he'll get a month with Jim before he does it all over again. He's had practise, and still the feeling never goes away. That's why it's different.

Morphine, he has discovered, whilst a blessing to every aching bone his body (and now thankfully working in full force), is not particularly helpful for winning arguments, or keeping thoughts safely inside of his head, because Jim's staring back it him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth, and it's at that point when he realises he said his little rant of a monologue _out_ _loud_.

Above him, Jim has the decency to look regretful as he sits back down in his chair, or maybe that's because Christine is glaring at him from across the room. Either way he's glad because he'd really rather not have an argument when his heads all fuzzy and right now he has the urge to either punch Jim or tell him how pretty his eyes are under the med bay lights. Well, they're always pretty. But now even more so.  _Jesus Horatio Christ, what's he on? **Morphine**. Right._  Besides, he's not sure quite how to coordinate his fist to Jim's face yet.

Jim deflates and sort of melts back into his chair like a beach ball that's been punctured and rubs a hand over his thick brow as if to try and erase the past 2 minutes out of his head. Going by the surprisingly distraught expression on his face, it hasn't worked and there's a following bout of silence where neither of them speaks that he distantly thinks their friendship has never suffered before. That is, until Jim seems to come out of his own head and rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'm sorry, _God_  I'm sorry. I didn't- M'not angry at you. I just really want to go down to that planet and smash their stupid skulls in for nearly taking you away from me. I don't know what I'd of done if you'd- if we hadn't got there in time."

It's as close of an acknowledgment of their feelings towards each other that's happened so far, something that's been left unnamed and dark and sprawling, lurking on the precipice that neither of them have dealt with yet, but since he's on morphine right now he can't really do anything about it in case he does something he might later regret.

"S'okay." He shuts his eyes against the view of the spinning ceiling. _Why is the ceiling spinning? It shouldn't spin. Are we crashing? Can't be. Jim's here, means he hasn't had the opportunity to piss off any aliens recently._  "It's diff'rent bein' the one shouted at in Medbay. You're not as scary though. You need 'n angrier eyebrow... Thing."

The twitch of lips he gets in response is much more genuine than the last and just like that the tension seems to disspiate... Dissitate? Desecrate? "We're definitely not crashing. You should get some sleep, Bones. You woke up briefly earlier talking about the merits of wearing slippers. Though interesting to hear how much you've thought about it, I wouldn't like a sequel."

He groans, or tries to, and Jim laughs silently again. "You sure? I've got some pretty int'resting stories 'bout bacteria an' starship floorin' you might wanna hear." He peers incredulously out of one eye at Jim, promptly closes it against the sight of his spinning face and tries to make the most disgruntled sound he can without moving his lips. Difficult, but apparently possible. "Maybe some other time."

"I look forward to it Bonesy. At least you're better than me on morphine. You haven't even  
spilled all your secrets. It's not fair. "

He'll blame it on being mostly asleep at this point and somehow his brain has given permission to go ahead and start saying everything he might possibly regret when he wakes up. "I do have a secret." He mutters into the pillow and somehow Jim's still able to hear it. Wait. He's not meant to tell Jim this is he? Or maybe he was... No. Jim can't know. "You have to promise you won't tell Jim though." There.

"...I promise I won't. Bones?"

"Hmm?"

"You said you have a secret you needed to tell me?"

He tries to make a sort of 'come closer' gesture with his hand but fails and nearly ends up hitting his own face. Whoops. Jim understands though as he does shift closer conspiratorially. He has a secret. Right. What was it again? He lowers his voice, it's not something the others can know and opens his eyes to meet expectant blue ones. "Bruce Wayne is Batman. Shhh! Don't tell anyone."

Blaming it on the medication seems like a good idea. Besides, he's had too much time to think about humanoid aliens who look like bats. 'Course his brain does the sensible thing and choses that moment to go to sleep before he can divulge anymore. Hopefully Jim wont tell.

 

 

Jim Kirk

4 days later

 

The number three is said to have an individual significance to the majority of people, whether they have three siblings or children or it's the number of the house they grew up in. In Christianity, Jesus is said to have risen three days after his death. It also pays particular significance in Celtic and Chinese cultures. The Roman numeral III stands for "giant star" in the Yerkes spectral classification scheme, and is the number of Pi when rounded down to the nearest whole decimal.

 

For Jim, it represents the three worst days of his life.

 

Worse than being ignored by his mother, being sent to tarsus, or living in the shadow of a hero he never knew. He had had hope then; A comforting and absolute knowledge that he'd either die or keep fighting. He'd had neither in the three days Bones had been ripped so violently out of his life.

 

 A light floods the room and he debates for a second whether it's a lack-of-sleep induced hallucination or a message from God. It's not, it's a message from Bones on the padd that he'd somehow wedged under his pillow, giving an eerie glow to the room.

_LHM: 22:57_

_You awake?_

 

He stares up into the darkness of his room and blearily asks himself the same thing. He knows the answer because he hadn't slept properly in days, a whole week, in fact. That might be because he's been, well, not _avoiding_  his CMO, per se. Just... Not encountering him, which hasn't been difficult, considering he's been cooped up in Medbay for the last few days. So he types out a reply and goes to splash water on his face, which doesn't do much to relive the lethargy that's clinging on to him on what seems like a permanent basis.

_JTK: 22:57_

_I'll meet you there._

 

When he finally reaches Bones' quarters he has to stop and think about it for a second. It's not that he doesn't want to see Bones, it's just doesn't want to see the man like this, thin and broken because of _him_ , which might be selfish on his part, but it's true none the less. He thought he just needed time to deal with it, but in reality the distance he's forced between them has made it worse. He taps in Bones' code anyway and swallows nervously when it opens with a pneumatic hiss.

 

There's a light emitting from the bed area, and he's glad to see Bones has stuck to doctors orders and not gotten out of bed, but there's a tray of food next to him left untouched and dark circles under his eyes, one leg exposed from under the covers where dermal regens hum under the pressure of mending heavily broken bone and tissue.

He'd been released to his quarters a couple of hours ago on the strict proviso that he gets rest and eats. It looks like he's done neither.

 

"How're you feeling?"

 

"Like 8 foot bat-lizards used me as a trampoline." Bones slurs, not reasonably, but it still hits like a punch to the stomach and he tries to suppress the subsequent flinch that always comes with the startling realisation that _he caused his best friend this pain just by being near him._

"I'm surprised M'Benga let you out this early." It's his sly way of asking how Bones is, of how much damage he's caused without _outright_  asking him, the man hates any hint of being mollycoddled. He swallows around the tightness at his throat that threatens to consume him and make him run away from the truth he doesn't want to face.

 

Shrugging with his slightly-better-than-the-other arm, Bones hums and sinks back into his cocoon of pillows. "M'not a good patient. We agreed it'd be better for everyone if I rested here." That's Bonesian for 'I bullied my doctors into letting me go with southern insults and made up curse words until they gave in' and he doesn't know whether to be concerned or relieved because it just sounds so _Bones_  it makes him want to cry. The fact he nearly lost _this_.

 

"You don't look like you've rested much." It comes out a little desperate and pathetic, but it's a fact. A fact that adds on to the seemingly ever expanding list of things he's worried about right now, of which the overwhelming majority is about one Leonard McCoy.

 

"You don't either." Bones says pointedly staring at him and what must be his very bloodshot eyes. "Talk to me, Jim. You're never like this." The fact he's been avoiding an _invalid_  comes to mind and his cheeks flush with an efficiency that's bordering on rude.

Bones is right though, of course. He is _never_  like this. Lost. Never been this unsure of himself. Bones has often accused him of leaping without looking but right now he feels like doing the exact opposite, wants to come up with lists and strategies, maybe an instruction book: ' _How to Keep Your CMO Out of Danger, a novel by James T. Kirk'_ , because damn if he is going to ever be put in this situation again, divine retribution be damned.

Bones must've noticed his difficulty answering the question because he shifts like he's about to reach out for him and then drops his arm against the bed with a wince like even the effort was too much to handle.

A moment of despair passes through Jim and he can't stop himself from backing away from the bed, one hand seeming to have a life of its own or a particular affinity with Bones as it gesticulates wildly in his general direction. " _That_  is what's wrong with me." He declares exasperatedly. "You can barely _move_  without being in pain. Jesus, Bones. Every time I close my eyes I can see you in that cell barely _breathing_. If we'd been a minute later I'd of _lost_  you. I can't-." He scrubs his hands over his face and forces himself to just breathe for a second, eyes welling up with tears that threaten to stream down his face and he's surprised it took him this long to break down like this.

An unattractive hiccuping sound emerges from his throat and he can't stop the words coming out from his mouth, the same way he can't retract the tear from sprinting down his cheek. "You _died_ , Bones. _Three times_  and I couldn't do anything about it."

On the bed Bones outstretches his left arm to the side and mumbles a "Jimmy, c'mere." And he can't resist climbing on the bed and curling into Bones' half embrace like a small child incapable of keeping themselves together. It's stupid. Bones is the one that's hurt, and he should be doing everything he can to look after him, and he will. Just as soon as he's able to form a coherent sentence.

"I can't believe you _avoided_  me, you dick." The arm around his shoulders feebly squeezes, and he responds with a hitching breath and buries his face further into the juncture of Bones' neck, his palm resting on bare skin above the man's heart, steady and strong despite everything he's been through. "I'm ok. I'm a little sore, but I'm healing. You saved me again, Darlin'." 

He wants to protest, to scream that he shouldn't need saving in the first place, but there's a sincerity to his voice, a tenderness in his expression that makes him pause, crumbles his resolve and makes him question the very nature of why they've been dancing around themselves all this time, something deep and scary and all encompassing that he's never allowed himself to feel before. "I-" He whispers into the hollow of the man's neck, and Bones is clinging to him just as fiercely, as if he needs this just as much as Jim does.

"I know, Jim, I do too." Bones replies, running a thumb over his cheekbone and settling back into the embrace of his pillows more comfortably, eyes drooping at the promise of sleep in the near future. He moves to get up, though it nearly kills him to do so, to allow Bones the sleep he so desperately needs and go back to his quarters to try and get some rest himself. A hand clutches at his bicep gently, stopping him in his tracks. "Stay? Please."

 

The notion that maybe in order for Bones to heal he needs something to fix strikes him. From the moment Bones sat next to him on the shuttle he'd been itching to patch up the cuts on his brow and knuckles, and he had let him. Throughout their time at the academy Bones began to change from a man broken by events of his past to a man who was strong and independent, every person he saved from their own idiocy seemed to save himself a little too. Bones needs to fix things, Jim needs to be fixed. It's a messed up codependency but it works.

The sheets are warm and smooth under his skin when he lies back down, but Bones is warmer, burning like a furnace and oh so alive next to him. "Bones?" He whispers into the dark chasm of silence in the room, his head not allowing the sleep he so desperately needs in face of bigger, scarier and more daunting prospects.

"Tomorrow. We can work this out tomorrow." Comes the mumbled reply, sounding half asleep and unburdened, and so, Jim takes a step back, away from the pending edge, wraps his arms carefully around the man he's standing there with and waits.

 

***

 

The artificial lighting of the Enterprise is designed to replicate the rising and setting of the sun and though it doesn't measure up to the real thing, doesn't have birds singing in the garden outside, or the gentle knocking of wind against the windows, doesn't smell like fresh air or cooking breakfast, he blinks awake to the sight of a man staring back at him, the artificial golden light cast across his eyes setting off the myriad of swirling colours in them, like a thousand stars in a thousand galaxies in an infinite amount of possibility, sees the gentle upturn of plush lips that hold so much promise, and feels his own answering smirk play across his mouth.

This is a man that trusts him implicitly, and has from the start. A man that's taken all Jim's flaws and moulded them into the shape of a better person, never denied they don't exist, but loves him anyway and he distantly wonders how he could've been so scared of this _._

He breathes it all in for a moment, the feeling of loving someone, and to be loved in return. Takes in the sight of them pressed together so unerringly close, even in sleep and grins, blindingly and without restraint, presses their bodies closer and their foreheads together and basks it all in. He takes a breath. Gives himself a running start to the edge and jumps. 

He lept before he looked and got caught by a man who lives in the future, who plans his destiny like the Earth revolves around the sun. He hasn't looked back since. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say a big thank you for everyone who's read, kudos'ed or commented on this fic, it does mean a lot, for even sticking with this when it's taken so long is amazing, so thank you! 
> 
> I hope you did enjoy the ending, I know it's a little sappy, I find writing love confessions both difficult and a little repetitive to write, (I'm not a romantic person XD) so I tried to avoid it in this, I'm not sure show I did in that respect, it still seems a little sappy and overworked to me, but anyways.
> 
> This isn't the last you'll hear of me this summer, I'm still working on a couple of old fics, but there may be some new ones coming your way eventually. Maybe a wing/nesting fic or a post apocalypse fic, I'm not sure which yet... Anyways. I hope you have enjoyed the journey, no matter how strenuous it's been XD if you did enjoy, i would love to hear your thoughts, if you didn't, well, I'd still like to hear your thoughts XD

**Author's Note:**

> So... what'd'ya think? 
> 
> Please let me know, I'd love to hear from you, and it will be finished at some point in the near future.


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